KA1 | The Lights of Diwali in Chianti
The car moved like a whisper through the curves of the Tuscan hills, gliding between rows of cypress trees and late-autumn vineyards. A Rolls-Royce Ghost, ivory and silent, reflecting the golden hour like a memory that refused to fade.
Inside sat the Kapoor family — newly arrived from Delhi, wrapped in silk, linen, and the quiet dignity of wealth passed down like heirlooms. Rajveer Kapoor, the father, wore a white linen kurta under a tailored jacket the color of champagne. His salt-and-pepper hair was immaculately combed back, his posture effortlessly regal. Ananya, his wife, had eyes that noticed everything and revealed nothing. Her sari, a cascade of gold and midnight blue, shimmered in the light like moonlight on water. She spoke little, but when she did, her voice filled the space like music in a marble hall.
Their children were different stories entirely. Aarav, fourteen, always had his drone case slung over one shoulder like a modern-day quiver. He didn’t speak unless necessary, but he saw everything — through his drone’s lens, through his own. Meera, eleven, carried a polaroid camera with her at all times and insisted on documenting the “useless things,” like the cracks on terracotta tiles, or the way her mother’s bangles caught the light when she turned her wrist.
They had come to Tuscany for a Diwali unlike any they had known. Not a riot of color and sound, but a retreat — intimate, golden, and slow.
The relais they had chosen was no ordinary hotel. Once a Medici villa, it now hosted only twelve guests, each room a sanctuary of frescoed ceilings and velvet drapes. The air smelled of musty stone, burning wood, and — that evening — saffron and rosewater.
Ananya had arranged everything in advance. On the terrace overlooking a sea of vines, she orchestrated a Diwali evening that bridged continents: brass diyas lined the balustrade, lit one by one as the sun dipped behind the hills; strings of marigolds were flown in from a florist in Florence who’d never heard of Diwali but was delighted by the challenge. The scent of incense mingled with the earthy perfume of Tuscan soil.
The chef — tall, moustached, slightly baffled — had been persuaded to prepare a Diwali menu that bent Italian ingredients into Indian forms: porcini mushroom samosas, biryani with carnaroli rice and shaved white truffle, pistachio kulfi reimagined as gelato affogato.
Rajveer stood on the balcony, sipping a mango lassi fizz with prosecco and fresh basil. Below, Meera was trying to teach the waiter how to say “Shubh Deepavali,” laughing at each variation — “Shubb deevah…vale?” “Shoob theepavoli?” — as if their mispronunciations added flavor to the evening.
Aarav launched his LED drone into the twilight. It rose, hovered, then drew glowing arcs above the vineyard, eventually spelling out: K A P O O R in slow, careful flight.
As darkness fell fully, the hills grew quiet. Then came the fireworks — small, subtle, curated. No thunder, no chaos. Just glittering blossoms of gold and green that bloomed softly above the olive groves, like stars falling politely.
Ananya lit the final diya herself, placing it at the edge of the infinity pool. The flame reflected against the water, stretching into the valley, flickering with the promise of something timeless.
Rajveer joined her and said, not quite to her and not quite to himself:
“These vineyards… they’re like temples. They hide the work of men and the patience of centuries.”
And for a moment — as the cypress trees stood like sentinels and the hills breathed in silence — it seemed the land itself was listening.
It was Diwali far from home, without the noise or crowds or the crush of Delhi streets. But in that quiet light, the Kapoor family found something else: a festival that spoke a different language, and yet, felt entirely like theirs.
